Without you
by DellaWatsonHolmes
Summary: Mary dies, and neither of the boys are able to take it very well.


For John, the whole day had been a complete blur; a mess and tangle of pain and emotions that he couldn't manage the strength to explain.

He remembered Mary phoning him; he remembered the desperation in her voice.

He remembered rushing home.

He remembered being too late.

There was blood. _So _much blood. It was everywhere. Soaking her honey-blonde hair, seeping through the many holes that should never have been in her body.

He hadn't even gotten the chance to say goodbye.

John hadn't been able to stay home that night. Not with the blood that still stained the floors. Not without the feeling of Mary's body warm against his own as he fell asleep in _their_ bed. And so he had gone home with Sherlock. Back to 221b.

He still considered the place to be home, simply a home he no longer lived in. Honestly, it had been the first place in London he'd really been able to call home after the war had finished. It was the home that would forever remain in his heart.

As they entered the flat, both men remained silent. Sherlock's head hung low, his curls falling over his face, hanging just over his eyes, blocking any sort of emotion that John might try to read in them. But he wouldn't have tried to read those eyes, because his head hung low too. His left hand would ball into a fist and then drop down by his side. Then it would go still. Then he would look down and see the blood that still soaked his off-white jumper from when he had held her still, lifeless body as she bled, as she died—and it would ball into a fist again.

They didn't even say goodnight. Sherlock immediately turned down the small hallway, and John up the stairs.

He was too distracted by the blood that still seeped through his jumper and the pain that still tore through his heart to hear the sound of something shattering one floor below him.

All he could think about was the pain.

The blood.

The last time John had seen that much blood it had been Sherlock on the ground. Sherlock with his head cracked open. _Sherlock _with the eyes so completely devoid of all life.

Before he even knew what it was he was doing, John was on his feet, both of his hands now curled so tightly into fists that his knuckles had begun to turn white. He needed to see Sherlock. See that he still had _someone _left to care for him. Because he needed someone to care for him right now.

The blonde trudged slowly down the stairs, turning into the small hallway that led to Sherlock's bedroom. He passed the bathroom along the way. Noticed the shards of glass that lay scattered across the floor. He froze, but only for a moment before darting down the rest of the hallway and turning into Sherlock's room.

And there he sat. Sherlock; with his curls still hanging loosely over his face, his long legs curled up in what looked to be an extremely uncomfortable position, and his hands—his _bleeding _hands—hanging over the edge of the bed, both curled up into very weak looking fists.

_"Sherlock," _John breathed, the realization that it must have been Sherlock who had shattered that mirror to bits hitting him almost immediately afterwards.

Sherlock didn't respond.

"God, Sherlock let me—" John continued, immediately falling to his knees before the brunette, taking the man's larger hands in his.

Sherlock pulled away, looking up sharply only a moment later. John was just barely able to see his eyes through his curls, but from what he could see the detective's expression was... _wild. _Almost terrifying.

"It's _my fault._" The detective spat, clearly disgusted.

John froze, shaking his head frantically as if the simple action could possibly reverse every negative thought flowing through Sherlock's head at that moment. Sherlock didn't respond, so John went back to looking at his hands, carefully picking out the small shards of glass.

"I don't think you want to be doing that." Sherlock said after only a moment of silence.

John looked up, clearly confused.

"Sherlock what are you?—"

"I don't think you want to be _healing _me, John," he continued, "It's my fault Mary died. Had I just been there earlier. Had I just solved the case in time... I would have been able to _save _her, John... It's my fault she's dead! It's all my fault and it would have truly been better if it had been me lying there dead. Maybe it would better if I still was!" Sherlock spat in the blonde's face.

For a moment it was silent. For a moment, neither man said a single word. For a moment, John stared at Sherlock in such utter, disbelieving horror. For a moment, it looked as though Sherlock had won.

But Sherlock hadn't won. Because Sherlock wasn't allowed to think like that. Sherlock was _not _allowed to _speak _like that.

And so John blew up.

"I fucking _loved _her. DID YOU KNOW THAT, SHERLOCK?" John spat, "DID YOU KNOW THAT I PLANNED TO SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE WITH THAT WOMAN? DID YOU STOP TO CONSIDER THE PAIN THAT I MIGHT BE IN BECAUSE I HAD TO SEE HER LYING THERE _DEAD _TONIGHT?"

"I _know_, John. That's why it would be—"

_"—No." _John responded, his voice lowering slightly, but the pure strength of his anger remained, "Don't you _dare _tell me this is your fault. Don't you _dare _tell me it should have been you, and don't you _fucking dare _tell me that you should be dead too," he growled, "Sherlock do you know what it was like for me to watch you die? Do you _know _what it was like to know that my _best friend _was _dead?!_ I don't think you do, Sherlock. There were so many days where I blamed myself. Where I told myself that it would have been better off if it were me standing on that roof instead of you, it would have been better off if I just bloody _followed _you off! I feel like that right now! But I _didn't _and I _won't_. Do you want to fucking know why?! Because I'm better than that. Because I'd be leaving behind people who still _need _me! And damn it, Sherlock! If I can bloody fucking do that then so can you," John's voice went quiet, the strength of his anger finally leaving and turning small, broken, but not weak, "In a few days, I'll have to bury my wife. _Don't _make me bury you too. Not again."

John went silent, staring forward, watching as Sherlock's wild sea green eyes faded into those of regret and maybe—just maybe—concern.

The brunette opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked up at John before hesitantly offering his injured hands forward for the doctor to treat.

John took them carefully and continued to clean out the glass.

"John—" Sherlock began,

John shook his head

"Don't, Sherlock. Just don't." 


End file.
